


Painting harm

by Sobbingoverboys



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I'm Sorry, I'm a douche, Lots Of Sad, M/M, Painting, Sex, Supper soppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sobbingoverboys/pseuds/Sobbingoverboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Enjolras finds out who Grantaire has been painting for all these years, he has some issues with his boyfriend's view</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting harm

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO TIRED  
> I WROTE THIS IN LIKE HALF AN HOUR  
> WHAT EVEN  
> PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME

“Do it again. Now. I want to see.”

Grantaire was drunk. Drunker than he had been for a long time, since they got together Enjolras thought, this had apparently been too much for him. Nobody could blame him for being distraught when he found out his mother died, nobody could blame him for drinking, but when Enjolras came home to find all of those repulsive, beautiful paintings laying all over their flat? He lost it. He demanded to know who the man was, who Grantaire hated so much that he would paint them in such a light, a light so different from the one he had painted his friends and family in. They were terrible, dark colours and distorted, you could almost taste the hatred that had spread the paint in such a way. When Grantaire, his tongue loosened by drink and grief, told Enjolras that they were his own reflection, Enjolras broke. Now he stood, yelling at the man as if he was scolding a child, throwing things out of their drawers in order to find the paints that he didn’t believe could be used like blades until he saw how Grantaire was hurting himself with them. Mangling his own appearance in a way that even Enjolras had been blind to.

“I can’t.” It was almost a whisper. Broken and sad and slightly slurred.

“Yes you can, you paint drunk all the time. Get the fuck up. I’m not letting you do this to yourself. You think she’d be proud? GET THE FUCK UP” Enjolras was losing it. There were papers everywhere, things he had worked so hard to put together were falling apart at his hands and he didn’t care, he tossed them in the air; his work scattered on the floor of the studio. Finally he dug out the paints, used and battered oils that he had once loved the sight of, smeared on his lover’s face, rivers in his curls and consolations on his clothes.

Now he hated the sight of these destructive tools that had been so seemingly innocent.

Losing his patience he slammed the paints down onto the shelf of the easel he had brought Grantaire for Christmas and dragged the man up by his shirt.

“Paint”

“I don’t want to.”

“I want you to.”

“What else would you have me do? Shine your boots? Anything but this.”

“I would take you seriously if you weren’t slurring. Paint.”

“Get fucked.”

Enjolras grabbed him by the collar, pulling him in close and looking into his eyes, wild with disorientation and fear, shaking him slightly.

“Please, paint yourself how you think I see you” His voice cracked, his eyes were stinging and Grantaire seemed to finally understand. He nodded, turned, and began to set up his paints.

~~

He was painting for two hours, or at least that’s what Enjolras thought. He hadn’t known when the painting started but it finished at 3am give-or-take a few minutes. The paining was, to Enjolras’ horror, worse than any of the other paintings currently sat around them.

“Grantaire. This isn’t even close.”

He looked up at him with eyes full of guilt and tears but spoke no words and, for the first time in their relationship, Enjolras had as little to say as his love. He knew words were becoming tired. He knew his constant reassurance was hitting walls that only spilled a little of the oils that were inside. He kissed Grantaire then as tenderly as the first time they had put lips together, with the same slow paced need that he had felt all that time ago. He never stopped needing Grantaire, he would be lost without him, so why could he move everyone with his words but the person he wanted to move the most?

The kiss lead them to laying, curled into each other, the pace still slow and their bodies simply touching everywhere. There were no gasps, no racing pulses, just the two of them consuming each other slowly.

This pace continued as Enjolras worked his way down, Grantaire’s throat, collarbones, nipples. His tongue and teeth were complimented by kisses that softened every exhale after a gasp.

“I’m going to make love to you,” Enjolras whispered onto the sensitive skin of Grantaire’s abdomen, allowing him a second to let out a soft whine before he continued “and I’m going to show you how much I love you, how much I adore every inch of you, how every blemish you have makes me want to worship you. I’m going to please you and then I’m going to sleep with you and you’re going to not correct a single thing I say.”

Grantaire nodded before letting his head fall back onto the scattered papers that covered the floor and Enjolras continued without another word.

Once Grantaire’s clothes had been taken care of, Enjolras removed his own with as little fuss as was possible, he couldn’t risk Grantaire giving him more attention than he deserved right now. He settled back at his side and the kissing seemed to go on forever, this time harder, more desperate and with more touches. Grantaire was soon making noises that were verging on obscene as they pulled, rubbed and licked at each other and Enjolras found himself pulling away to go and find the one thing they needed to get closer than they already were.

As his fingers slipped into Grantaire he watched the man moan and arch his back, pushing for a better angle to achieve fullness that he knew he wouldn’t find.

“You’re so beautiful” He choked out as he curled them upwards, hitting the spot that made Grantaire really perform. He threw his head back, dark curls flaring in the dull light, and exposed the length of his throat to Enjolras, allowing him to marvel at the marks that he had left on tanned skin. He couldn’t take it anymore, he had to feel him. Before Grantaire had any time to react Enjolras was inside him, licking the moans out of his mouth and thrusting in time with the fist that had curled itself around Grantaire’s cock. He kept saying it over and over, drowning in his own words as he climbed towards climax, only interrupted by Grantaire’s cries and moans. Why could he not bottle this passion for Grantaire to drink instead of poisons? He found himself unravelling, coming hard inside his love only a moment before Grantaire let out a final cry, releasing onto their shaking stomachs and saying the first thing since he had painted, “I love you”

~~

They woke up in the morning curled together even more tightly than before and with whispered promises and feelings still coating their tongues. It had been a long night and Enjolras didn’t stop telling Grantaire what he loved about him until they both fell into dreams.

Kissing Grantaire tenderly on the nose he lifted himself from the floor and began setting up the easel again, a new canvas and the paints that Grantaire was yet to touch. This was not the morning for blades. Grantaire rose and stood behind him, smelling of paint and musk, pressing a kiss to his temple and grabbing the brush from Enjolras’ hand before he needed to ask.

It was better.

It was less dark.

His face was less distorted.

It was almost the man Enjolras saw in front of him.

It was still distorted but it was better.

They could work on it.


End file.
